


Anthem of the Angels

by DayStorm_ao3



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Arranged Marriage AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28381329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayStorm_ao3/pseuds/DayStorm_ao3
Summary: Some say that our lives are defined by the sum of our choices but it isn't really our choices that distinguish who we are . . . it's our commitment to them. In an arranged marriage, love is a luxury; friendship is not.
Relationships: Oliver Queen x oc
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	Anthem of the Angels

**Chapter 1  
AMELIA ARCHER**

* * *

"Oliver Queen. The rich man's Lindsey Lohan."  
– **Helena Bertinelli,** S01E07

* * *

My grandfather's hand closed over mine, cool and firm.

"Stop fidgeting."

Without question I did what I was told and of course, visibly winced when I did. On a night ripe with first impressions, I hadn't meant to seem obedient – only that I hadn't noticed my fingers plucking at a cloth napkin.

Moira Queen may have intended for this evening to be a comfortable, casual affair but the sheer opulence of their home . . . my grandfather should have been grateful that I was _only_ fidgeting, when what I really wanted to do was stare like a slack-jawed yokel.

I recognized the painting hanging on the wall at the head of the table, just over Moira's perfectly coiffed golden crown. The dramatic use of light and shadow, the perception of motion; a _Rembrandt_. They would have laid down several million for that original print.

To then hang it in a seldom-used dining room like a throwaway piece of wall art –

I slid my hand out from under my grandfather's and reached for my wineglass.

"I thought we might keep things simple," Mrs. Queen was saying, while our dinner dishes were cleared, "seeing as the caterers are preparing for tomorrow's reception."

"Dinner was delicious, _Moira_ ," my mother assured her, awkwardly informal.

I hid a smile and out of the corner of my eye, I thought Oliver might have done the same.

"Here, here," Walter seconded, jovially.

Though a step-parent, Moira's second husband, Walter Steele had been the one to greet my family and I at the door; a tall, broad-shouldered black man in a friendly gray suit. His handshake firm, but not punishing.

He'd seemed genuinely happy to have us and I credited him, not my mom, not my steadfast grandpa, with putting me immediately at ease. The initial queasiness, that bloom of nerves as I stood poised to meet my fiancé for the first time – swept aside like I was already family.

 _Fiancé_.

Even only in my head the word felt heavy.

Not unpleasant, exactly, but weighted with meaning and the strangest sort of thrill. This was really happening. In less than twenty-four hours, I was getting married and I was meeting my _fiancé_ for the first time tonight.

I considered him through the veil of lowered lashes.

Heir to the Queen dynasty, Oliver was the tragically privileged son of Moira and the late-Robert Queen. Handsome as sin and twice as dangerous, though not, I thought now, for the reasons one might expect. It was his eyes.

They didn't wander, never seemed to float around; they were quiet, introspective . . . _focused;_ making it difficult for me to relate the man sitting across from me to the image I had of him splashed on the cover of tabloid magazines and gossip columns.

I set my wine down.

". . . that the floral order was amended?" Moira inquired.

"Amelia felt that _hyacinths_ would better compliment the season," my mom said "and you can be sure the florist is charging us a tidy sum for the effort. Imagine how we must have seemed to that poor man, changing our minds at the last minute!"

Polite laughter from both women.

Idly, I wondered if my mother realized how flat her lie would fall. _Hyacinths_ were a spring flower; we were in November, making this a winter wedding. The flowers would not, in fact, better compliment the season.

Moira had chosen the original arrangement. Red and white roses; expensive, beautiful and classic. I could have left it alone, certainly my mom would have been happier if I had, but to my mind _red weddings_ didn't end well so . . .

I called the florist first thing and changed the order to blue _hyacinths_ instead. They weren't happy with the short notice, but it could be done – and the cost was coming out of my own account. Not my family's. Not the Queen's. _I_ was paying for this.

So I didn't appreciate the implication that I was just demanding.

I forced a serene smile as dessert was – finally – brought out.

A hand-churned chocolate and black cherry ice cream, served with coffee strong enough to acid strip the back of our throats and as the wait staff set the small dishes in front of us, from under the table, I felt my grandpa give my knee an encouraging pat.

 _Be patient with her_.

"You're quiet."

Silence fell like an axe.

For a gloriously loaded moment, the only noise came from the gently crackling fire on the far side of the room and it was so unsubtle that I couldn't help myself. I laughed. It was _funny_.

"Am I?" – lightly. "And here I was starting to believe we'd make it through the dessert course, without provoking the table. Good going, Oliver."

My mother stiffened. Moira, though, set her chin lightly on the ends of her fingers, a ghost of a smile playing over her expression and her wedding diamond glinted in the lamplight. A shiver trembled down the length of my spine. I couldn't look away.

Not from the man across from me, or from the shine of that diamond in my peripheral.

"Two hours of stilted conversation and a stony silence," he picked at his dessert, crumbling the paper-thin wedge of decorative wafer between his thumb and forefinger "I was just about ready to start taking it personally."

"Maybe I'm nervous."

"You're not nervous."

No, I wasn't.

Or . . . not as nervous as I felt I should have been. As my sister would have been, in my place. I did wonder how this evening would have progressed, if she were in this chair instead of me and immediately shut that down. She wasn't here.

I was.

"My silence," I countered, "wasn't stony. It was _contemplative_."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

Hm. I ticked a brow, inviting him to argue with me. He surprised me when he didn't.

"Alright, well, if you're _contemplating_ the best time to break and run I suggest while in transit. It's, uh, twenty or so minutes to the city. Personally I'd wait until you get there to make the attempt," Oliver added with a lazy, mischievous glint, "the woods do get cold at night."

"Fling myself out of a moving car," I tapped my chin, as if mulling it over. "Not a bad idea. You know bruises aside, I think I can manage a fair head start in the few seconds it takes my family to realize what I just did."

My mom was officially telegraphing death threats. I could practically feel the side of my head start to sizzle – and made the deliberate (and very mature) decision to ignore her. I reached for the small desert spoon, holding it lightly between my fingers.

The flatware silver and heavy enough to be solid.

Christ.

"Actually, throwing myself out of a moving car does seem a bit dramatic. You're not so bad," and he certainly wasn't unattractive. I ventured a smile, "I think I can bring myself to show up in time for our wedding."

Both Moira and Walter laughed, his deeper chuckle adding a lovely depth to her delighted chime.

My grandfather shifted in his seat, started to clear his throat. Thought better of it.

For a second I was worried – my grandpa had been on my side right from the start, but the look he shot me was pure grand-parental _approval_. Dark eyes in a deeply lined face sparkling with mirth. I was being myself.

Oliver's lip quirked, a slow smile easing over his expression.

It was not an uncomplicated smile. Guarded, but acquiescing. He considered me, those hard blue eyes as still as deep water.

They were a strange color. Darker than I was expecting but mercurial; in the clear, bright light of late afternoon they'd been almost transparent but now, under the softer glow of lamplight they'd deepened to a piercing sapphire.

"An interesting choice. Your necklace –"

The whole point of this evening was for us to get to know each other, and I fingered the warm pendant hanging from a delicate chain. A _padlock_ ; the pendant no larger than a thumbnail, nestled just above the soft cut of my blouse.

"The chain is real but the lock is steel, not silver."

"You wore it for the pendant," he noted, "not the chain."

I passed my thumb over the pendant. It inconsequential weight reassuring in its familiarity.

"I've had it since I was . . . fourteen, I think? I do _own_ nice jewelry," I added, if a bit defensively "but tonight is something else. I thought if I was here to meet you, then maybe you'd like to meet me, too."

Oliver blinked, maybe taken aback by the frank sincerity of that statement, maybe having expected a measure more coyness, and a subtle warmth seeped into those penetrating blue eyes. "You're not what I was expecting."

The confession came on hardly a breath, meant just for me.

Neither was he what I was expecting. I lowered my eyes, turning my spoon over and over in that single scoop of chocolate ice cream. I honestly couldn't say what I expected when we arrived, who I thought he would be, and it surprised me to learn that I was enjoying this.

Him.

"Tell me something about yourself." The words slipped out, like his, on hardly a breath.

"What do you want to know?"

An opening. He was giving an inch, to see what I would do with it but rather than a test it felt almost like a gift. So I asked him, "Where would you be right now, if you didn't have to be here tonight?"

"What makes you think I'd rather be anywhere else?"

"Cute."

"But true," he said. Christ. Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth, "there's nowhere I'd rather be then right here. Meeting you."

My heart had no right turning over at that. Traitor.

Oliver's careful, not uncomplicated smile ticked higher. "Your turn. Where would you be now, if you didn't have to be here tonight? Meeting _me_."

I caught my bottom lip between my teeth, torn between the truth and . . .

"I dunno," I admitted. "I think maybe you're right. Where else is there but here?"

That was the right thing to say. A calm, full silence followed and it was comfortable. Easier now to indulge in that pause as people's attention slid away; our parents and my grandfather satisfied that we were . . . actually talking. I guess. Not fighting, at least.

Which is a pretty low bar if that's all they'd been hoping for.

My mom tasted her ice cream, cupping the smallest amount on the end of her spoon before setting it delicately in her mouth. Next to her Moira took her husband's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Walter lifted it to his mouth, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles.

Moira's wedding ring, a single hard stone set in platinum; the band crusted with diamonds, like salt spilled over a table. It must have cost a fortune – but her eyes shone with affection for the man who'd given it to her. Love.

I felt his eyes on me, the weight of them like a physical caress. Oliver.

What would mine look like? Had he picked it for me, or did his mom? The same way she'd chosen the venue, the menu, and the flowers before I usurped that decision?

I met his stare, evenly. Equally.

My breath seemed to catch a little.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked, and when I nodded, "Why would you agree to this marriage?"

He kept his voice down and to our families' credit they pretended that they weren't still listening. As if it were even possible to hold a private conversation at a table set for six.

"Why would you think I had any choice in it?"

"Because if you're being forced into this, Amelia, you're hiding it awfully well." Pause. "Are you?"

No. I had no real choice, but no one was having to _make_ me do anything.

I tapped a thumbnail on the side of my dessert dish. Hand churned, the ice cream was soft and meant to be eaten quickly. I hadn't touched it. The hearth fire popped loudly, sending a shower of sparks against the pretty iron grate.

"Amy."

He ticked a brow.

"My name," I offered; my own gift. "I . . . prefer Amy."

He let me change the subject, "You don't like Amelia?"

"Oh, I like it well enough but it's so formal. Especially when I was little, Amelia was such a grown up name," and I laughed, "it became my first real rebellion."

"Did it ever," my mom added. Guess she was done pretending she wasn't eavesdropping. "You obstinately _refused_ to talk to anyone who called you by your name." Her eyes sparkled, "Such a willful child."

" _Amelia_ is a princesses' name," I pointed out. Willfully.

And it was Walter who said, "Or a Queen's."

Oof. Well, that was sobering.

We exchanged a glanced, Oliver and I, as the reality of this evening settled between us. In less than fourteen hours, we would stand up together and take our vows . . . a contract . . .

Walter, thankfully, chose to diffuse the sudden disquiet. By engaging me, "If I may," he began, "your family founded, and remains the majority share holder of The Archer Group. Construction and real estate . . ."

Yes. It was how my family amassed its fortune, and that fortune . . . couldn't hold a candle to the Queens' wealth. But of course everyone at this table already knew that. I just nodded, inviting my soon-to-be father in-law to continue.

"You're an intelligent young woman. An ambitious one," he said. "I find it interesting that you would surrender a secure career in business for –"

How to say this without sounding rude.

"For culinary school?" I finished for him, and wrinkled my nose in a little laugh. "You can say it, I'm not my family's shame. I gave up a career in business for a shot at the food industry."

It was almost imperceptible, but Oliver ticked his head. I was as much a stranger to him, as he was to me. He hadn't known this. I studied him but he didn't look critical. Just interested.

"I didn't _surrender_ my position at my family's company," I explained, and my mom nodded. Backing me up, "I wasn't needed. My father has been grooming my sister to take over the company when he's ready to retire and Liz . . . Elizabeth . . . is very happy with this."

I reached for my wineglass, the liquid inside a rich, golden white. Held it.

"Having my older sister fall in line essentially freed me to pursue my own interests, and those interests took me to restaurant kitchens. Although you're right, I am ambitious. And I do have a head for business. I plan to open my own fine dining restaurant some day."

Moira approved, "Starling City has a wonderful market for cuisine, a restaurant with your name on it would do well here."

"If I could break into it," I countered. "A thriving market offers a tremendous opportunity, but the odds of a success also decrease exponentially." I set my wine down. Untasted. "And I think I would be ashamed to use the Queen name as a crutch. Any business of mine would have to succeed through its own merit, and the quality of the product I have to offer."

My mom beamed. Radiating approval, and pride.

No one said it, because no one had to. There was no question that I could have used his marriage, and all those things I stood to gain – the Queen name, wealth, influence – to coast through the rest of my life . . .

And my family would have been deeply disappointed in me, if I'd done that.

I was intelligent, educated, with my own ambitions and a solid work-ethic and not until Moira sent the proposal to my family for my hand did it even occur to me that I was as much a prize as Oliver Queen himself.

This union was coveted. Debutants were coming out of the woodwork; where I had something else to offer.

"You do have a head for business," Walter said, his deep, pleasant voice resonate, "too many dreamers forget the reality of turning profit in a market already inundated with competition, where you mention it as a matter of fact."

Coming from Walter Steele, the CEO of Queen Consolidated, one of the largest and most profitable conglomerates this side of the world . . . hearing him say that meant a lot. My gaze slid to Oliver, quietly watching all this.

"What do you think?"

Humor fired in Oliver's eyes. "I think I dropped out of four Ivy League schools, and the fifth still accepted my application."

I snorted. Then laughed.

"I already know about the nightclub," I said. He lifted a brow. "And from what I've seen, you're making it work so that puts you already ahead. Not bad for a man who spent five years lost at sea. Or . . . was I not supposed to bring that up?"

By the way everyone stiffened, bracing themselves, my mom's spoon clacking sharply against her dessert dish, you would think I just stood up and slapped him. Even my grandpa, who'd been fairly chill all through dinner, held his breath.

I stared straight ahead, gauging _his_ response. The only one that mattered. Something very much like hard respect replaced the humor in his eyes.

"I'm impressed," he said. "You lasted straight through _to the dessert course_ , without bringing that up."

"For good reason," I lowered my voice as if sharing a secret, let a smirk wink into sight. "They're all looking at me like they're afraid I'm going to break you."

He laughed and my heart stumbled a beat at the sound of it, "Yeah, try not to read too much into that."

– people released their collective breaths, a ripple of embarrassment passing over each face in turn. Neither of us acknowledged that we noticed, though of course both of us did. Staring across at him, over the glistening glasses of our wine, the silver of dessert dishes, cloth napkins and the polished mahogany of the table . . .

The whole world seemed to just fall away; one too-bright pixel at a time and it was almost exactly like in the movies. Sounds pulled away. The wall behind him faded into a dim, blurry shadow while Oliver seemed to sharpen into clearer focus.

Maybe he felt some of that. Oliver licked his lips, and in a subdued voice asked, "One thought, in exchange for another."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"One thing," he said. "Tell me one thing about yourself, something you haven't said already, and I'll tell you a secret."

Tempting.

"I'm not afraid of the dark."

I said it as if this had actually come up, and Oliver's brow furrowed. His eyes slid, then returned to me.

"The woods get cold at night," I reminded him. "Dark too, I assume? The dark doesn't scare me and the cold . . ." I shrugged "whatever. I brought a coat."

Laughs from Walter and my grandpa.

"Is this your way of warning me you're planning the attempt?"

"Well that would be embarrassing," I said. "Having your betrothed pull a runaway bride."

"Amelia," my mom chided.

Oliver offered his first uncensored smile, daring and real humor sparkling in eyes I had so admired. It was all I could do not to marvel at the way the hard planes of his face were cast in flickering relief by the gently crackling fire.

He certainly wasn't unattractive.

That smile transformed his whole look and my own came easily, naturally, in response to his. "You're turn, Oliver. Tell me a secret."

He considered me, a world or words moving behind eyes that had lightened to turbulent seas. _How_ had eyes so vibrantly blue turned gray?

"You know what," he offered, quietly, intimately, "I'm very happy to meet you, Amy."

* * *

**XxX** **xXx**

* * *

We were staying at the luxurious Essex Grand Hotel, in uptown Starling, overlooking the gleaming business district – and from my suite, I could just make out the frothing gray waters of the bay. Five years ago, a yacht sailed out on those waters.

Half a decade later . . .

In the near distance, the glowing blue "Q" of Queen Consolidated shone like a low-hanging moon over the gleaming jewel of the city at night. Standing at the window, I pressed a trembling hand to my stomach and not for the first time, wondered if I was making the right decision.

For myself.

For my family.

At just past six a.m., I left my suite and rode the elevator down to the lobby.

I amused myself by locating the mostly hidden eyes of security cameras; their lenses positioned in the upper corners, where the gold mirrored panels came together. Between the four of them, no matter which way someone was facing, there'd be a clean shot of the face.

Nice.

This early in the morning, the hotel was quiet.

The receptionists in their smart red blazers, at the glossy dark reception desk, talked quietly in the subdued stillness of the empty lobby.

To the left of the elevators, a wide corridor led deeper into the hotel and I could just see the frosted glass and chrome doors that opened into a banquet hall. My skin prickled with what might have been nerves, if the wasn't for the hum of the air conditioning over my head.

I let the sleeves of my sweater slither down over my hands, and crossed my arms.

Sunk into an overstuffed chair across from the reception, I found my grandfather. A newspaper lifted up over his face. He didn't have to lower it to know I was there . . .

"Early morning, my dove?"

I sat down. "Good morning, grandpa."

On the low glass table between our chairs, a tea service had been set. I took his cup without invitation, cradling the lukewarm china with both hands. Sipped – and then grimaced.

"Ugh. For real, why don't you just drink coffee and be done with it?"

He chuckled and folded his newspaper with a practiced snap. The tea was just how my grandfather liked it – black as tar, with just enough sugar to take the edge off and a squeeze of lemon. To put the edge back, I guess.

It tasted like cough syrup.

"Kids these days," he teased, and lightly slapped my knee with the newspaper "weak bellies."

"That must be it." I set the cup down, careful not to let it clack on its saucer. "Because if you're trying to kill mosquitoes, we're in November. I think you're safe."

"Did you sleep well?"

Now there was a loaded question. I shrugged. "I slept."

"Ah."

"No. Not _ah_. I'm –"

"– would you like a _uh-huh_?"

Oh, funny. I snorted, but was grateful for the humor – for the way my grandpa could make me smile, even when I didn't know what to feel.

"I did sleep. Some."

He nodded. "It's normal to be nervous."

"Why do people keep saying that to me? I'm not nervous."

"Lie to the whole world, my girl, but don't you ever lie to yourself," he said, with the most grandfatherly sounding _harrumph_ I'd ever heard and set his newspaper, crisply folded, down on the glass-top table. Exchanged it for his teacup, "Do you like him?"

_Him._

"What does it matter?"

"It matters."

Maybe so. But I was under no illusion; our marriage was transactional and nothing short of a meteor would even _postpone_ this union.

"I found him . . . enigmatic."

I really could not parallel the man he'd been, to the man he'd become, and it flustered me more than I cared to admit. Even to myself. Five years lost at sea, he wasn't at all what I was expecting. Damaged, I had no doubt but also, somehow . . . not.

He intrigued me. _Enigmatic,_ sounded safe enough.

A tired businessman came through the hotel lobby doors, dragging a draft of icy air in his wake and I looked that way.

Outside, the early dark seemed so clear. Sharp. Edged by the shine of hotel lights, and the gloss of rain-wet asphalt. Light slithered off the hoods of parked cars. My skin itched to be out there. In the crisp, cold air.

My grandfather said nothing.

He waited, patient as an old oak, for me to find the words I needed. To make sense of the emotion roiling inside me. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth, and studied my grandfather's weathered face, tracing the lines that were the roadmap to a life lived.

More, each line, every wrinkle, the webbing around his eyes, the deep lines at the corners of his mouth, evidence of a man who'd lived _well_. The grandfather I knew laughed easily, and often. Kind, stern, he'd earned every moment. Owned every second.

His life was behind him – while mine lay ahead . . .

"What if I don't like him?" The question slipped out. Although if I could have snatched it back, I'm not sure that I would have. _Lie to the whole world . . . don't you ever lie to yourself_. I cleared my throat, and pushed ahead, "Look, no one has to worry I won't be there. I was kidding, we were kidding, about me slipping away. In spite of the _arranged_ part of this marriage; I had say in all this and I said yes."

"Is that what scares you?"

"That's the thing about having a choice, isn't it? You don't know, _can't_ know, if you're making the right decision. Not when it's being made." The back of my throat felt dry, from the strength of my grandfather's tea. I cleared my throat, "I never thought I'd say this, but I almost wish I'd had no choice at all."

My grandpa's smile was soft, and affirming.

"None of us live in a fairy story, my girl, and you both have a responsibility," he said, meaning Oliver and I, "to your families, and to each other."

For the first time I felt the fluttering of butterflies in my stomach and I lowered my eyes, watching the lobby lights play off the tiny silver teapot on its pretty silver tray. There was kindness in my grandfather's voice, "In an arranged marriage, love is a luxury; friendship is not."

I blinked. Looked up. My grandfather nodded and took a long pull from his tea, before setting it aside.

"You go into this prepared to be his friend. Be open to love, but don't go searching for it."

I stuck my tongue between my teeth, trying to levity. "That's your advice? Just go with it . . ."

"Queen he may be, but a prince he isn't and you shouldn't expect him to be. The best piece of advice I can offer you now, is to just be his friend. His partner." He shook his head, that twinkle of good humor returning to his eyes. "You did good tonight, my girl. I'm proud of you."

I returned his smile. "Did I? Really?"

This marriage was a union. A contract. Totally mercenary; love was neither required, nor expected and I agreed to it. Because it _was_ a good match. So why that instant clutch in my belly, not of fear, but nerves? Just nervousness.

My grandfather said it, so succinctly.

Because once we were wed, once the marriage contract was signed, the ink dry, we had a responsibility. To our families . . . and to each other. Be his friend. His partner.

Mother to his children.


End file.
